Just a Hat
by theclarinetchica
Summary: Five times Sherlock wears a hat and One time John does. Johnlock. For MrsNoggin


Many thanks to **MrsNoggin** for the prompt of Sherlock wearing hats and for being a wonderful beta!

5.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, not the deerstalker again." John closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them again the hat would be back on the coat hook, rather than on the detective's head.

"It's just a hat, John." He pulled the brim of the deerstalker down, effectively hiding his face. "There's a hoard of paparazzi outside, most likely a remnant from the Thompson murder case. I would rather not oblige them, but Lestrade is insisting that we come down to give our statements."

John sighed. It seemed like this would be one of those issues that wouldn't be worth arguing about. Pulling on his coat, he followed Sherlock down the stairs, both of them pausing before the door.

"Lestrade sent a car for us, to ensure that we actually make it to the station this time," Sherlock pouted.

John smiled. Sherlock had a tendency to ignore Greg's requests for him to give statements. Recently he had taken to sending a police car to escort them, not that John blamed him.

"Ready?" Sherlock grasped the door handle, waiting for confirmation.

"Whenever you are," John replied, steeling himself for the onslaught of people outside their flat.

They pushed their way through the crowd, heads down to avoid the photographers. Sherlock slid into the car after John, turning to face the doctor as he closed the door.

"Why the scowl?" he asked.

"I don't like people prying into our private lives," John answered, looking out the window as they pulled away from the kerb.

"It really bothers you."

"Well, yes," he admitted.

"Why?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused.

"Because I would like to keep some things private," John said without really thinking about the words. He grimaced to himself, there was no way Sherlock would let that go. John had been at war internally, fighting a losing battle of attraction to the genius.

"I see."

John looked sharply at the detective, who was currently staring at the back of the seat in front of him. Well, if Sherlock wasn't going to pursue it, he wasn't going to argue.

"Why do you insist on wearing that stupid hat?" John asked after a moment.

Sherlock's mouth quirked, one side drawing up in a half smile that John recognized as genuine. "Because it bothers you so much."

"Fuck off." John tried to hide his amused smile, but from the look Sherlock gave him, he knew he wasn't successful.

4.

"Quick, John," Sherlock exclaimed as he walked through the door to the flat, "You need to change into your tails. We have a case!"

John looked up from his newspaper, eyebrows climbing as he saw what Sherlock was wearing. He was devastatingly gorgeous, the crisp lines of his outfit skimming his body. And was that…a top hat?

"What the hell are you wearing?"

"A tailcoat, John. Go, change!" Sherlock grabbed his newspaper, throwing it down on the sofa, before grabbing John's hand and pulling. He knew better than to oppose Sherlock when he was on the high of a case. And, if he were honest, he didn't really want to oppose him when it came to that particular thrill.

"You're forgetting something, Sherlock," John said as he levered himself out of his chair before the detective dislocated his shoulder. "I don't have tails."

"Which is why I took the liberty of procuring them for you. Go!" He pushed John toward the staircase, obviously intent on getting the doctor out the door as soon as possible. "We have a benefit to attend. The murderer will be there for sure."

He mounted the stairs, Sherlock following as explained the details of the case for John. The blogger was down to his pants before he realized that Sherlock was still in the room.

"Don't be silly, John, I've seen you naked before," Sherlock pouted as he was unceremoniously pushed out the door to stand on the landing.

"You were looking?" John's voice emerged higher than he would have liked, but the idea that Sherlock had actually _seen_ him bare unnerved him.

"I'm a detective, John. It's my _job_ to notice these things."

"You're a consulting detective, Sherlock, it's not your _job_. You'd actually have to get paid for it to be a job."

John could practically feel Sherlock glaring at him through the wood of the door. "I _do_ get paid."

"At my insistence."

"But by your argument, that's what makes it a job. Therefore, it _is_ my job to notice such things."

"Damn it, Sherlock, I'm not a fucking case."

"It's not something I can just turn on and off. I'm always observing, calculating. Are you dressed yet?" Sherlock opened the door before John responded, but thankfully he was decent, if not completely dressed.

He finished buttoning his waistcoat as Sherlock stood close behind him, reaching around with a long piece of white fabric. John was transfixed, his tongue unconsciously darting out to wet his lips as he watched long fingers in the mirror deftly tie the bowtie.

Sherlock stepped back and turned him by the shoulders. John shifted nervously as the detective looked him over from top to toe, an appraising look in his eye.

"Your hair - it needs gel. Come on." Sherlock bounded down the stairs, leaving John to follow.

John sighed and trudged down to the main floor of the flat, resigned. Sherlock flew out of the bathroom in a fury of limbs, with a jar John was sure he had never seen before in his hand.

"Where did that come from?" John asked warily, with good reason. There had been several memorable moments - the homemade toothpaste that ended up burning his mouth being the one that sprang to mind immediately - that had left John wary when it came to Sherlock and household items.

"A shop," Sherlock said, annoyance in his voice, "Really, John, it's nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm not afraid. Just… cautious."

"Come here," he ordered, leaving no room for argument. John reluctantly approached Sherlock, who brought his hands up to run through John's slightly greying hair. He fought to keep from leaning into the touch, the struggle making him feel ridiculous. He was an adult; surely he could control himself from romantic advances toward a man who didn't do relationships.

During John's internal war with himself, Sherlock had arranged John's hair, slicking it neatly to one side.

"There we go," he announced, stepping back to look John over. Their eyes met briefly, and John _thought_ he may have seen something there, but it was quickly replaced by Sherlock's usual gaze of fierce intelligence.

John stepped back, turning away to hide his feelings from Sherlock. That was the biggest problem with living with a genius consulting detective - he could usually deduce what John was feeling before he knew it himself. After he had schooled his features to hide those particular emotions, he turned around to face Sherlock again. The detective had replaced the top hat on his head.

"The fuck?" John asked incredulously. It seems he had been reduced to curse words when faced with Sherlock in a top hat.

"It's just a hat, John."

"But do you really need it?"

"My hair has a tendency to escape whenever I try to make it lay flat. Besides, a top hat will be expected."

"Same with the gloves?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded, sounding glad that John was finally seeming to understand.

"Then why don't I have gloves?"

"Because I couldn't find any on such short notice to fit your hands."

"Piss off," John said, but smiled. He was glad they had fallen back into their usual banter. He had come scarily close to doing something he was fairly sure both of them would have regretted.

"I'll make sure to have some ordered for the next time we come across a case like this."

"Next time?"

"One can never be too sure."

3.

"No. No, no, _no._"

"But John, it's for a case."

"I swear to God, Sherlock, you don't need _Shezza_ to get answers."

"I promise I won't use again."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock stood before him in sweatpants and hoodie, artfully ripped. "That's not… God, Sherlock, I almost lost you last time."

"Oh." Sherlock looked thoughtful for a minute, "You do know I'll be back."

"You can't know that. You need me-"

"I hardly _need_ you, John. I survived for over thirty years on my own."

"And by all accounts did a piss-poor job of it!" John had to rein in his anger, he didn't want Mrs. Hudson coming upstairs about a "little domestic."

"I don't need your protection, _Doctor Watson_," Sherlock spat out, voice overly formal.

"Like hell you don't! Last time you went undercover as Shezza you ended up strung out and almost addicted again."

"I was in perfect control," Sherlock said haughtily.

John snorted derisively, "Right."

"Then what would you suggest?" he asked, voice thick with sarcasm.

"Let me come with you."

It was Sherlock's turn to snort. "Because you're so good at undercover work."

"I swear to God, you go undercover without me, and I'll call Lestrade."

"That's fine with me."

"Wait, I won't call Lestrade. I'll call your brother."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

They started at one another, each trying to convey their seriousness through their expression. It was Sherlock who relented first.

"Fine," he sulked, "grab an outfit, we're going to have to make you fit in."

"What do you mean?"

"Your current appearance will give us away." Sherlock explained, adopting his know-it-all voice, "We need to alter your clothes so you'll look like a homeless addict. Grab that atrocious oatmeal coloured sweater, it won't be missed."

"I happen to love that sweater, thank you very much." John trekked up to his room, selecting clothing that he never wore- a particularly ugly jumper and jeans that were already beginning to fall apart.

Sherlock tore into them with a vehemence that would have concerned John- if Sherlock had not just lost an argument. The detective tended to react like a child when John "won" one of their spectacular rows. Soon, he had an incredibly dirtied outfit to change into.

They were out the door a few minutes later, Sherlock explaining the case to John. He seemed to have lost interest in being upset with the doctor, talking in excited sentences. Reaching the abandoned building that was the supposed hideout of the drug dealer/murderer they were trying to locate, Sherlock reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a worn baseball cap. He jammed it on his head, curls peeking out wildly from underneath. John briefly wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through those curls before he brought himself back to the present.

"God, Sherlock, not again."

"It's just a hat, John."

"You look ridiculous."

"As I'm sure you are aware of, we have started to become recognizable. Short of cutting or dying my hair, this is the best way to disguise it."

John thought for a moment, realizing that he definitely didn't want Sherlock to cut or dye his hair. He supposed it _did_ make sense - the detective's hair did make him stand out. Granted it did nothing for his striking eyes or lean figure, but the two-day shadow and baggy clothing helped to hide that.

"Right," John said tersely, "Let's get this over with."

"You remember our story?"

"Sherlock, this is not my first time going undercover."

"I'm aware of that. However, this _is_ your first time going undercover with me in a drug den."

"We're druggies- specifically addicted to heroin, however not averse to using other drugs. We prefer downers to uppers, but won't say no to a hit of crack. We met two years ago, and have stayed together since."

"Good. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Let's go."

2.

John thought he was going mad. Sherlock sat outside the coffee shop, smoking a cigarette and looking bored, his hair slicked back underneath a flatcap. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Sherlock without his curls, but it made his heart do a little flip anyway. While he much preferred his wild mane, the sleek black sparked his imagination. He fantasised about running his hands through Sherlock's hair, mussing the clean lines the gel created as he pulled the detective down for a searing kiss.

_Fuck it_, John thought, and crossed the distance between them in three long strides.

His hands came up to pull the flatcap off Sherlock's head, fingers tangling in his hair. He leaned up, giving the genius a chance to pull away before he pressed his lips against Sherlock's.

It was awkward at first, Sherlock being completely taken by surprise. After a moment, his hands came up to grab fistfuls of John's jumper, drawing the shorter man flush against his body.

John promptly woke up.

He let out a string of curses as he took stock of his morning erection. This was more than a bit not good, fantasising about his flatmate. His very male flatmate who didn't "do relationships".

_In for a penny, in for a pound,_ John thought as he wrapped short fingers around his very hard cock. Quicksilver eyes, raven curls and a ridiculous cupid's bow crossed his mind as he tugged efficiently, intent on coming as quickly as possible. He knew he would feel guilty later about thinking about Sherlock as he got off, but right now he didn't care. He _needed_ the release.

Four minutes later he came violently, edges of his vision graying. It had been awhile since he had such a spectacular orgasm, and it left him trembling. He relaxed, boneless, into the mattress for a bit before his need to clean up overwhelmed him. Pulling his old t-shirt over his head, he quickly wiped himself down before getting out of bed and shrugging on his dressing gown.

He padded down the stairs to the bathroom, praying that Sherlock would not be in the kitchen. Luck was not with him, but fortunately the genius was too absorbed in his experiment to notice John's blush.

He escaped into the bathroom, jumping into the shower. The hot water burned away his embarrassment and by the time he was clean, John was ready to face Sherlock.

"Do you own a flatcap?" The words were out of John's mouth before he realised what he was asking. _So much for alleviating my embarrassment_ he thought.

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Never mind," John looked away, trying to figure out a strategic retreat.

"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson called from the doorway. _Thank God for Mrs. Hudson._ "You've got a visitor, boys."

1.

"Come _on_, John," Sherlock called up the stairs. He had sent John to his room five minutes ago with a bag of clothing and an order to change.

John stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. He wore dark jeans that skimmed his muscular thighs and a tight black jumper.

"John!"

"I'm coming, don't get your knickers in a twist!" John took one last look in the mirror, wincing at the picture he made, and made his way down the stairs. Sherlock stood at the bottom, eyes narrowed in confusion.

"I don't wear knickers, John."

He couldn't help it - he burst out laughing. "Sherlock, it's a phrase," he said, trying to get his giggles under control.

"Oh," Sherlock sulked, obviously upset that John was laughing at him.

"Don't be like that. You make fun of me all the time."

"I do not."

John rolled his eyes, realising this was yet another argument that wouldn't be worth having. He took a moment to look Sherlock over, gaze resting on the hat perched on the detective's curls.

"What's that?"

"It's just a hat, John."

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, you don't need a bloody beret to go undercover."

"But it's a poetry reading," Sherlock whined.

"Why are we going to this again?"

"Because the suspect will undoubtedly be there. He has a passion for performing his own poetry, and this is his usual venue."

"Right. But do you really need the hat? I didn't think people still wore those to poetry readings."

"I _did_ do research, John."

"Look, at the risk of embarrassing myself-"

"Really, John? You think I didn't know that you used to write and perform slam poetry?"

"Yes, well... right. Here's the thing- even back when I used to go to poetry nights no one wore berets. That's kind of a beatnik thing, an American phenomenon."

"Fine, John, I won't wear the beret. I do think it gives me a certain… je ne sais quoi."

"Pretentious bastard," John said, though he smiled, "You don't need it."

One side of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, and John suddenly wondered if he had miscalculated. His army training kicked in as the taller man's arm snaked out, beret in hand. They wrestled for a moment, Sherlock trying to get the hat on John's head. The two men finally broke apart, John giving up as Sherlock jammed the beret over his short grey-blonde hair.

"I don't need it either," John laughed.

"Well, one of us should wear it, and since you insisted that it not be me…" he trailed off, waving one large hand in the direction of John's head.

"Fine, fine," he relented, pulling the beret down over his eyes, "Let's go."

Sherlock grabbed John's coat, helping the older man to slide into it before he turned and grabbed his Belstaff.

"After you," John gestured, following the detective down the stairs and out into the cold London night.

+1

"John, what is on your head?" Sherlock had stopped short in the doorway to the flat, staring at the doctor, who was currently focused on the blog post he was writing. He looked up, schooling his features to innocence.

"What do you mean?"

"That… that _thing_ on your head…"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John smiled to himself, he had been planning on getting the detective back for all those stupid hats, but he hadn't expected it to flummox him quite so much.

"That… _hat._"

"It's a fedora, Sherlock."

John then made the mistake of looking up at Sherlock, whose expression was a cross between annoyance and arousal. He had never expected to see that look on his flatmate's face - the arousal, not the annoyance. He saw annoyance every day. The arousal, however, was a turn-up for the books.

Sherlock prowled over, gently removing John's computer and placing it to the side. John looked up, about to ask what Sherlock was on about, and his breath caught in the throat - the detective was much closer than John had initially realised. He glanced down at the pronounced Cupid's bow, and his eyes fluttered shut as warm lips were pressed against his own.

_Oh_. John mind stuttered to a halt, which was ridiculous. He was Three Continents Watson - a chaste kiss shouldn't have this effect on him.

Sherlock took a step back, blushing. John's heart flipped, the sight before him was almost too much.

"I am sorry," Sherlock said, overly formal.

"What on Earth for?"

"For being so… forward."

John looked up at the genius, who was refusing to meet his eyes. He reached up and tugged on Sherlock's hand, pulling him off balance. He fell onto John, breath rushing out in a quiet "oof."

"I'm not," he admitted. Sherlock looked confused.

"Not what?"

"Oh come on," John smiled, tongue darting out to moisten his lips in a nervous gesture, "You're being ridiculous. I'm not sorry. That you were forward."

"Oh," Sherlock said quietly.

"I'd like to do it again."

Sherlock blushed, just a miniscule darkening of his cheeks. John watched the pupils of his eyes widen slightly, and he grinned at the effect he was having on the beautiful man in his lap. Sherlock nodded, and John's lips found his. The kiss was more coordinated that their initial awkward press of lips, and John found himself taking control, angling his head to deepen it. He tentatively brushed his tongue along Sherlock's bottom lip, and the genius acquiesced, opening his mouth and tangling his own tongue with John's.

Sherlock shifted back suddenly with an exclamation of "Ow!"

"What?" John leaned into the chair, bringing Sherlock into focus. The genius held a hand to one eye. "Oh, shit. Did I hurt you?" He reached up to take the fedora off, but was stopped with a hand on his wrist.

"Don't you dare take that hat off," Sherlock said, his uninjured eye sharp upon John. A mischievous grin spread across his face as he leaned down, running his nose along the brim of John's hat. Sherlock trailed his lips across John's temple, bringing them to the shell of his blogger's ear. "I have plans for that hat."

John sat up, almost dumping Sherlock on the floor as he let out a moan. "Plans?" he whimpered.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip as he stood gracefully, reaching a hand down to pull John out of his chair.

"Twenty-six separate plans, specifically. All of which include fucking you with that hat on."

"Oh," John was suddenly unable to articulate words as he became acutely aware of the tightening in his abdomen. The force of his arousal flared sharply in his belly as Sherlock tugged on his hand, leading him to the bedroom.


End file.
